


Chambon

by bluebirdfiction



Category: Actor RPF, American (US) Actor RPF, Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name (2017) RPF, French Actor RPF
Genre: F/M, Family, France (Country), Grandmothers, Meet the Family, Multi, Road Trips, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-03-10
Packaged: 2019-11-15 04:02:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,428
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18066236
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bluebirdfiction/pseuds/bluebirdfiction
Summary: Quick story based off a dream I had last night. You're dating Tim and going to Le Chambon-sur-Lignon with him, where he spent his childhood summers. (Just cutesy couple stuff)





	Chambon

“Are you coming?” Timmy was standing by the open car door, waiting for me to get in.

“You left this upstairs!” I handed him a bag, and then scrambled into the back seat. My dad and John were already in the front.

I usually hated road trips because of the arguments my family loved to have, but this one would be different. Dad and Timmy had been working together for years, because Dad had produced several of his films. They adored each other, constantly taking silly selfies when they should be working, and often grabbing dinner together. It was on one of these dinners that I happened to meet Timmy, and as he likes to say to anyone who will listen, the rest was history. Now after wrapping in Angoulême (I’d stayed with my dad here to finish up some work for my master’s for a few weeks), we were going to visit Timmy’s grandmother in Le Chambon. My dad and John were only dropping us off on their way to the national park where they wanted to camp for two weeks before flying back to New York. 

I tried to stay awake and take part in the conversation, but after only a few minutes I fell asleep in Timmy’s lap. I’d been up all night writing, and the slow, winding country roads did not help. I awoke what felt like only minutes later. Timmy’s hands were in my hair, he was twisting it absentmindedly while discussing some movie with my dad. 

“What time is it?” I asked, groggy.

“Only two. You weren’t out for long.” He bent down and kissed me lightly.

“No making trouble in the back seat!” My dad scolded in his mock headmaster voice (we were all glad he’d given up acting), and Timmy unhanded me, raising both his hands into the air. I laughed and snuggled back into him.

“Do you think she’s going to like me? I know I’ve asked you this a million times, but I’m worried. My French is so rusty, she’s going to think I’m dumb!” I didn’t know why, but meeting his grandmother was making me more nervous than I’d been before meeting his parents or Pauline. 

“Don’t be stupid, your French is better than mine. She’s going to be obsessed! Just give her some time to get to know you. Sometimes she just needs a few days to warm up to people, it’s nothing personal. Plus, she begged me to bring you. It will all work out, I promise.” He squeezed my nose between his fingers and jerked me around a little as I tried to fight him off. 

We spent the remaining four hours playing games like ‘I spy’ and forcing John to tell us stories. He’d grown up in Chinatown and had the driest humor I’d ever witnessed, so hearing him unflinchingly recount the havoc he wreaked on his unsuspecting neighbors as a child was a rare treat. 

Timmy’s grandmother didn’t have enough space to house all of us, so Dad and John were going to stay in a hotel while Timmy and I slept in the attic. I tried to straighten myself out as much as I could as we pulled into the village. We drove up a hill, and Timmy pointed out her house to me. It was at the top, two stories and an attic flanked by similar, but smaller houses. They were all built in the same pale brick. My dad parked on the slanting sidewalk, and we walked up to the house. Timmy rang the doorbell, an expectant grin on his face. A few seconds later, a young girl opened the door. She couldn’t be any older than five. 

“Oh!” Timmy exclaimed. “Salut Magali!” She giggled with glee and held out her arms. He picked her up. “My grandma watches over they neighbor’s kids in the summer when they’re at work. She’s probably in here somewhere.” He carried Magali into the house, who was whispering things into his ear. He returned with his grandmother a moment later.

She was small, with a short haircut and bright blue eyes. After the usual French flurry of kisses on both cheeks she asked us all inside. Both my dad and John did not speak a lick of French, so Timmy and I served as translators while she handed out cups of coffee and asked how the journey went. 

There were three more children inside, running around the living room and shouting at each other, and Magali soon joined them after growing bored with adult conversation. We sat in the kitchen. Its large windows opened onto the modest backyard, which was surrounded in flower beds which were overflowing with color. The children had left evidence of their hectic day - there was a plate of carefully cut apples, now left to brown, cups of juice, a half-eaten sandwich. 

Dad and John excused themselves after downing the last of their coffee, and Timmy and I went with them to collect our bags from the car. 

“That wasn’t so bad, was it?” Timmy asked, pushing his suitcase up the hill as the car rounded the corner, disappearing out of view. 

“No,” I conceded. “She seems sweet. I can’t believe she’s looking after those kids, I was exhausted just watching them.”

“The neighbors buy her groceries for her in exchange, which is nice, especially since my grandpa is away visiting his brother.”

“Well, I’m sure she’s happy to have our help over the next few days.” Frankly, I was dreading wiping up spills and shouting at them not to run on the stairs, but I knew we owed his grandmother.

“Oh, they’re leaving tomorrow, actually. They’re going on vacation, thank god.”

After lugging our suitcases up to the attic bedroom, which was outfitted with twin camp beds (we both chuckled), we helped Mamie, as Timmy called her, clean up the kitchen and prepare dinner. It took about an hour for my French to kick in again, but once it did, I was able to answer most of her questions with ease. She was more than eager to tell me embarrassing stories about Timmy’s childhood, and he groaned at a particularly entertaining one involving him screaming after encountering a large fish in the river.

Mamie’s neighbor showed up to collect his progeny as we were setting the table, and the house was eerily quiet for a moment without the shrieks and laughs of the little ones. 

When we had finished dinner, Mamie instructed Tim to show me around town while she cleared up, and although we protested, wanting to help out, she practically pushed us out of the front door. The sun was just beginning to set, casting shadows on the narrow streets and tinging the roofs gold. He took my hand, swinging it gently as we ambled down to the tiny square, past bakeries, restaurants, a hairdresser with a pun for a name. He pointed out places he used to frequent with his sister, reflecting fondly on the years before the fame.

We eded up on a path leading us through a patch of woods, and he pulled me into the trees. 

“Tim, what on earth are you doing?” I scrambled after him, trying not to lose my footing on a root or fallen branch.  
“Here, look!” He pointed out a few marks in the bark of a nearby tree. I took me a moment to realize it was a carving of “Tim! 2005”, barely visible after more than a decade.

He pressed me up against the tree, hands sliding up my sides underneath my thin t-shirt. I hooked my fingers around the waistband of his shorts, pulling him closer, waiting for him to bridge the gap between our lips. He smiled, tilting up my chin, kissing me, timidly almost, touching only the tip of his tongue to mine. I slung my arms around his thin frame, one hand trailing up his stomach, encouraging him. He reciprocated, moving his hands to my neck, kissing me more forcefully. 

The shadows had snuck up on us, and although we both wanted each other, right there, we knew we had to go home. 

“Mamie sleeps on the first floor,” he murmured as we left the woods behind us. I laughed. “It’s good,” he said, picking up my hand and kissing it. 

"What is?" I asked.

“To be young, and to be yours.” 

The last traces of heat had escaped from the asphalt beneath our feet when he let go of my hand to knock on his grandmother’s door, announcing our return.


End file.
